


Confusion

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Amateur Deductions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: After TRF, John and Sherlock are...kind of weird. When John confronts him, the truth comes out - and it wasn't what Sherlock thought. John and Greg both suffered through the Fall, this is what happened after Sherlock returned.





	1. John and Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlantsAreNeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/gifts).



> To PlantsAreNeat, whose Johnstrade "Entangled With The Watsons" is lovely and always the first thing I think of when someone mentions this ship.
> 
> And to 0foxgiven, whose prompt for FTH accidentally inspired this as well.
> 
> This was written first, but 'Fog' comes before it chronologically. IMO, it works better to read this first, but it's up to you. Whatever works for you, dear reader. <3

“I’m off, then,” John said, ducking his head around the doorjamb. He and Sherlock made a point to let each other know where they were going now. It was one of the changes with which he was actually pleased.

Sherlock nodded, turning away from his microscope to look directly at John. “To work, I can see. Thank you, John.”

As John descended the stairs, he felt a frown form. Sherlock had been achingly formal with him since returning from wherever the hell he had been for the previous two years. John hadn’t expected…well, he hadn’t expected to see Sherlock alive again. But once the initial shock wore off, John realised how awkward things had become between them.

He strode along Baker Street, feet moving automatically toward the tube station as his mind worked. He wasn’t living at Baker Street – his new flat had another six months left on the lease and he was comfortable there. It was odd to drop in to visit Sherlock, especially when Sherlock varied between sitting to have tea with John or ignoring him completely. It was the only variation to the formal behaviour John was now experiencing. He would make his way up the stairs, certain Sherlock would know it was him. If Sherlock was in the sitting room or the kitchen, John would stay for tea and stilted conversation. Sometimes – as today – he would politely excuse himself to tend to an experiment or two. Twice he’d been playing his violin and John had sat and listened before their tea.

Sometimes, though, Sherlock’s bedroom door would be closed and the rest of the flat silent. Rusty though he was in ‘reading Sherlock Holmes’, the message was clear, and John would quietly retreat. Sometimes he’d stay for tea with Mrs. Hudson; more often he would simply go home. Like today, there were days he left from Baker Street to go directly to work. The domesticity of fare-welling Sherlock as he left always sat awkwardly. It was too close to how they had been. Alighting from the tube, John blinked, realising he’d made it all the way to work without even paying attention.

He stood for a moment, enjoying the rare London sunshine on his face. Things couldn’t go on as they were, and this quiet moment, calm with the sun gently warming his face, felt like the moment before the storm hit. Because when his shift finished tonight, John Watson was returning to 221b Baker Street to confront Sherlock Holmes. Whatever was going on, they needed to get to the bottom of it. This awkward stasis was affecting more lives than just the two of them.

+++

“Sherlock?”

John called up the stairs, a little self-conscious but knowing the unusual move would signal Sherlock that this wasn’t a regular call. Ignoring the fact that he’d been there earlier in the day, of course. He took the stairs a little more slowly than usual, privately wondering what he would do if Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and his bedroom door was closed. Fortunately he was saved the decision (Leave? Wait? Smoke him out?) by the presence of Sherlock, standing by the mantle in the sitting-room.

“Good evening, John.”

“Hi,” John said. He knew he was standing awkwardly in the doorway. With a self-conscious clearing of his throat, he stepped forward, eyes pinned on Sherlock. “We need to talk.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock said. John’s seat was no longer in the flat, so they stood awkwardly by the mantle instead.

Taking a deep breath, John said bluntly, “Why is this so weird now?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Exactly!” John said, his exasperation with the whole situation bursting forth. “You’re all formal with me. You haven’t sneered at me, demanded tea, complained about anything, or even deduced where I’m going without asking.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” When John just looked at him, Sherlock sighed. “Are you certain you want to have this conversation, John?”

“I wouldn’t have started it if I didn’t want to,” John replied, feeling himself draw up into a military stance. He stared at Sherlock, holding his gaze until Sherlock spoke.

“Very well,” Sherlock replied finally. He took a deep breath and John could see his whole body still, as though bracing for something unpleasant.

“When I returned to London, Mycroft supplied me with information about your response after the, um, day at St. Barts’. The report was lengthy, but the summary was clear. You were devastated at my perceived death because you were in love with me. I have observed you with your so-called-girlfriend and it’s clear she’s a beard – you like her but any affection is feigned. I have come to the conclusion, given the frequency of your visits and continued reluctance to move back in, that you are still harbouring an uncomfortable romantic and or sexual interest in me.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed as his trail of deductions came to an abrupt end. The silence rang out in the flat as John processed Sherlock’s words.

The silence was broken by John’s wry chuckle. “Close, Sherlock.” He felt himself relax even as Sherlock drew in on himself, as though his tension was being passed through the intervening space.

“What?” Sherlock bit out.

“You’re close. And I’m not in love with you.” John crossed his arms, allowing the smile to break the grim expression he was certainly sporting earlier.

“But…” Sherlock looked lost, so John took pity on him.

“I’ve never been in love with you, Sherlock. I care about you, probably more than the average bloke cares about his mates, but I am not now, and nor have I ever been in love with you.”

“Really?” said Sherlock.

“You were right about Laura, though.” John added conversationally. “She is a beard, but not because I was in love with you.”

“Then who?” Sherlock asked. If he’s not using full sentences he must still be in shock, John thought.

John sighed. “Look, this is a long story. Why don’t I make tea, you move your chair closer to the sofa and we’ll talk, okay?”

Sherlock nodded briefly and John turned to the kitchen.

Returning with two mugs of tea, which he’d made automatically while his brain scrambled, John paused. The sofa had been shifted, allowing Sherlock to drape himself over his usual chair in its usual place, though facing off centre. Of course, thought John, and the return to old rituals actually made him feel better.

“Right,” John said, seating himself on the sofa. It was odd looking at the flat from this angle, he thought absently. “Okay, look. Before…all this, I did fancy someone. It wasn’t you, but it was,” he paused and cleared his throat, “a bloke.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Not gay?”

“Clearly not,” John pushed down the irritation. He hated it when people assumed he was either gay or not, ignoring the wealth of other options. “Anyway,” he said pointedly, “Before all this, I was…interested in someone. But he was interested in another someone else, so,” he shrugged, then picked up his narrative without letting Sherlock comment. “When you jumped,” they both stilled for a moment at the emotion charged word, “I was…devastated. You were my best friend. My whole world revolved around you. I was lost without you, and Mycroft was a complete tosser. Suffice it to say, I did not cope well.”

“Right,” Sherlock said cautiously. “What about your beard, then?”

“What about her?” John replied.

“What is she a beard for, if not me?” Sherlock asked.

John took a deep breath. This was the crux of it all. “Greg,” he said, “She’s a beard for Greg.”

 “Greg?” Sherlock repeated blankly.

“Greg Lestrade. From NSY. My partner.” John explained.

“But he was married.” Sherlock said blankly.

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock. There are more than two options, you know. Greg and I are both bisexual.” Not that this was the point, but better to get it straight now. So to speak.

Sherlock frowned. “There’s something missing, isn’t there.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, “there is, but it’s not really my story to tell you.”

Sherlock gave him a look, and John knew that while he wasn’t technically breaking a confidence, Greg wasn’t going to be too happy with him.

“I fancied Greg and Greg fancied you. When you were gone, he was as upset as I. We both left London for a while, and when we came back we ended up flat-sharing.” John shrugged, self-conscious now about sharing this with Sherlock for some reason. “One thing lead to another, but we wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while. So when Laura asked me out…” Another shrug.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, sitting back in his chair, eyes still on John. For his part, John sat still, waiting for Sherlock to process this. Despite his huge brain, it was clear he had not considered John’s ‘not gay’ to mean anything other than straight, with the slightly arrogant exception of himself.

“So…what now?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “I want to be friends with you, Sherlock. I still care about you – a lot – and I know you need someone watching your back – yes, you do,” he interrupted himself as Sherlock scoffed at the notion. “But I can’t move back in here. I’m living with Greg now. Laura doesn’t know, but I think she’s figured out that I’m not that interested in her. Greg and I have been talking about coming out after Laura and I are over.” John sipped his lukewarm tea. “What do you think?” His heart was pounding as he waited for Sherlock’s response.

“Oh, fine,” Sherlock replied. “Dropping me for the first attractive Detective that pops your way. Is he from a continent you have yet to tick off your list, then?” The words were harsh, but the familiar tone, along with a sparkle in his eye, told John that they would be alright. Sherlock would need some time to think it through completely – John’s Sherlock radar wasn’t completely rusted out – but things would find their new equilibrium.

“Okay,” John said, grinning. “Look, I’m going to go. I’ll drop over day after tomorrow, okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, with an impressive amount of boredom and distain for a single syllable.

“Eat something before then,” John told him, and Sherlock huffed another acquiescence.

As he made his way down the stairs, John was grinning.


	2. Greg and John

“Well?” Greg asked as John came in the door.

“That might be the most normal conversation I’ve ever had with Sherlock,” John said, hanging his jacket behind the door. He stepped out of his shoes and followed his nose to the kitchen where Greg was setting out their late meal.

“Thanks for waiting,” John told him, wrapping arms around Greg’s waist for a hug. The rumble of a pleased hum sounded as he lifted his face in to kiss Greg’s neck, right where his collar sat. John breathed deep, the familiar scent washing over him. He loved that he and Greg had such different taste in cologne. They never smelled the same on someone as out of the bottle, but John was still fascinated at how much better everything smelled when Greg wore it.

“No problem,” Greg replied, his own arms holding John close for a brief moment. “Just let me finish this and you can tell me about it.”

They sat a few moments later, wine and salad to accompany the pasta Greg had thrown together after his own late evening at the Yard.

“Mmm, this is good,” John said. “Sorry I was so late, you must have been starving.”

“Too busy to notice,” Greg replied. “Until now.” He grinned at John. “Why don’t you tell me what happened while I eat?”

Conceding the moment, John put down his fork and outlined his conversation with Sherlock. Greg was not surprised their relationship had come out, though he wasn’t entirely pleased.

“Seriously, I wouldn’t have told him if it wasn’t absolutely necessary,” John said.

“Christ, John,” Greg groaned. John knew him well enough to see his apprehension. No real anger though which was a good thing.

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. He sighed. “I just…it’s complicated.”

“Fucking complicated,” Greg muttered, poking at his pasta spirals. He sighed and ran one hand over his head. “It’s fine. Honestly, there’s no way you’d be able to explain it past Sherlock Holmes. I’m surprised he hasn’t picked it already.”

“Yeah, well, he spotted that Laura’s not really my girlfriend,” John said. “Not for much longer, anyway.”

“What?” Greg said.

“She’s not an idiot,” John pointed out. “Six months and we’re still casual, she hasn’t stayed over here even once…” he sighed. “Fucking complicated.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, until Greg was almost finished.

“Well,” he said, pushing the rest of his meal aside, “I know one thing that’s not.” He stood, pulling John to his feet.

“Really,” John replied, smirking at the proprietorial tone in Greg’s voice. From what he had gathered over the years, people seemed to think that John was an unwavering dom in the bedroom. While that was generally true with women, he tended towards highly competent men with a bit of an authoritarian streak, and Greg was no exception. They both happily switched, sexually speaking, but if anyone was going to be in charge it was Greg, to John’s immense satisfaction. Perhaps it had to do with their physical size, but with a bigger partner he relished being submissive, having decisions taken gently out of his hands and just being allowed to _be_.

“Really,” Greg murmured into John’s mouth, kissing him. The kiss wasn’t overly forceful, yet John was given no choice in the matter; Greg was wonderfully skilled at walking the line between firm and rough. John loved it. He opened his mouth willingly, moaning as Greg’s tongue made itself at home in his mouth, showing John exactly what he had in mind, one way or the other. Sometimes Greg fucked John hard, gripping his hips as John’s head drooped between trembling shoulders; other times John lay flat on the bed, pushing up into Greg, panting as Greg took his pleasure even as John struggled not to come at the magnificent sight.

Either was good. On the rare occasions John had a preference Greg was always amenable, taking John’s breathless words and making them a reality. Sometimes there was begging, but most often Greg was exactly what John had hoped he would be. Considerate and conscientious, wanting to make John feel good in a way that fulfilled them both.

As Greg’s hands gripped his arse, John pressed closer, the meal forgotten with the promise of something more interesting on offer.

“Christ, I want you,” Greg growled, running his mouth down John’s throat. John groaned in response, unable to form words as Greg’s tongue traced invisible patterns on his skin.

“I want you to suck me off,” Greg said, making John shiver. Greg was nothing if not direct, and the graphic nature of his requests often ramped John up to an almost unbearable state before he’d even begun touching. They hadn’t yet determined if John could come from Greg’s voice alone, but he wouldn’t bet against it.

“Then,” Greg went on, fingers now working on the buttons to John’s shirt, skating inside to pinch at his nipples, “I want to ride you until you come inside me.”

John gripped Greg’s shoulders then, wasting no time, dropped to his knees, hands fumbling at Greg’s zip. The bulge beneath made it more difficult; Greg’s fingers were patient in John’s hair, only gripping once his cock sprang free and John had started on his task with enthusiasm. He’d done this enough to know what would get Greg off the fastest and what would tease; how to use his tongue to make Greg swear, and the exact noises Greg would make when his cock hit the back of John’s throat.

He went right for deep sucking, twisting his wrist around the base and moaning loud around stretched lips. From the tightening grip on his hair and quiet, “Fuck, fuck…” it was doing the trick; if he was on his game, Greg wouldn’t last long. John redoubled his efforts, taking Greg in deep, making sure he felt the soft skin rub against his soft palate. Sure enough it was only a few moments before Greg’s hips began to move, heralding the beginning of his climax. John relaxed his jaw, allowing Greg to fuck his mouth, feeling the swelling and pulsing right before his mouth was filled, again and again as Greg groaned his name. John felt a rush of adrenaline, _I did that_ , swallowing it all as Greg’s fingers relaxed, massaging John’s scalp as he licked Greg through the aftershocks. The few quiet seconds were some of John’s favourite and he relished the feel of Greg’s fingers pressing against his scalp.

“Bed,” Greg said, helping John up and kissing him, hands caressing the same jaw that was aching a little from being fucked. As they stumbled towards bed, John started tugging off his shirt; his own arousal had just hit him hard again, and he was straining in his pants, desperate now to press into Greg and chase his own release. The trail of clothes was almost comical, though neither was even looking behind them. John almost dove onto the bed, scrabbling for the lube he kept under the pillow. He turned to Greg, heart and cock jumping when he saw the smirk on Greg’s face.

“Lie down, gorgeous,” Greg said, taking the bottle.

John complied, shuffling pillows away, arching into the air when Greg’s slicked-up fingers tightened around his cock. He closed his eyes, feeling Greg’s fingers stuttering up and down his cock, almost groaning in frustration at the intermittent touch. He could picture Greg, one hand on John, one hand disappearing between his thighs, face a mass of concentration as he tried to do two things at once. The inaccurate hand job was a tease, they both knew it, and John concentrated on his breathing, knowing it wouldn’t be long before Greg settled over his thighs and guided him…

There it was. The weight on his hips, Greg’s grip on his cock finally firm as he lowered his body over it. John felt himself pushing against a warm mass and resisted the urge to thrust hard. Instead he found Greg’s hips and helped steady him, feeling the muscles tremble as Greg accepted him. The warmth and tight grip were incredible, as always, pressing around every inch of John’s cock. John waited, knowing Greg was breathing deeply, waiting, waiting…

Weight shifted on the bed.

Hot breath in his ear.

“Fuck me, John. Slow and deep.”

The voice was Greg’s, but deeper, strained and desperate. John’s eyes were still closed but he’d bet Greg was hard again; it wasn’t uncommon for him to come again when they did this. He moved immediately, pressing up, gratified by Greg’s movements in concert with his. It was like torture, John thought fuzzily, his blood singing, but different to any of the previous moments leading up to it. The torture of ecstasy, perfect and so slow you could cry, the delicate control like steel beneath its fluttering wings.

Without conversation, they fucked, slow and deep as Greg had instructed until their bodies moved gradually faster, Greg rising and falling with an increasing tempo until John’s hips were snapping up to meet him, his fingers gripping Greg’s arse, feeling the hot breath on his face as Greg panted. The build had been long and slow, but the end was quick; it soared, coalescing and exploding with barely a warning, tearing a cry from John’s throat and a stuttering tattoo of thrusts from his hips. The muscle spasms subsided gradually, and he realised his stomach was sticky.

“You came,” he said drowsily, barely registering Greg’s chuckle.

“That’s what you do to me, gorgeous,” Greg murmured. An absent, an inexplicable wrench before the warm roughness of a cloth cleaning him up. John’s eyes were still closed, and it wasn’t until Greg came back to him that he opened them.

“Mmmm…” he murmured, still feeling sparkles throughout his body. Greg’s face was affectionate and John allowed his eyes to be held by that endless chocolate for several long moments.

“You weren’t still hungry, I hope,” Greg murmured, “I think it will be cold by now.”

“Mmmm, I am, though,” he said ruefully. “Don’t mind it cold, though.”

“I’ll grab it,” Greg said, kissing his temple. “Won’t be long.”

John stretched, watching Greg’s arse as he walked out towards the kitchen. He really was a lucky man.


	3. Laura and John and Greg

“So what are you going to do about Laura?” Greg asked. He was shaving, while John lay in bed; there wasn’t room for both of them in the tiny en-suite, and John’s shift at the surgery didn’t start until midday.

“God, I dunno,” John groaned. He stretched, enjoying the subtle cracks of his joints as his body shifted. “The right thing, I suppose.”

“Of course you will,” Greg said, meeting John’s eyes in the mirror and winking. It was a warm moment, and John felt ‘I love you’ on the tip of his tongue.

“Won’t make work awkward will it?” Greg continued after the pause. From the way his hand had hovered in the air while their eyes locked, he had felt the change in atmosphere too. It had happened before, and John wondered if Greg was waiting for him to say it first. He shunted the idea aside – it needed more thought than he could give right now. The procrastination had severed him well these last weeks, and he’d continue it for…a while. Probably.

“Maybe,” John said. “But you know what it’s like. They don’t call it Shag-ton for nothing,” he said. It was hardly a secret that pretty much everyone in the surgery had slept with at least one other member of staff. He was constantly mildly surprised at how smoothly the surgery ran given how many of the employees had seen each other naked.

Right now he watched Greg shift as he examined his shave.

“Smooth enough?” John asked, tucking his hands behind his head.

“You tell me,” Greg replied, crawling up the bed. He dragged his chin against John’s middle and up his chest, nuzzling into his neck.

“Mmm, yeah,” John said, willingly opening to Greg’s kiss. He hummed with pleasure at the contact, the comfortable, deep kiss of established lovers. He swatted at Greg’s arse. “Get up and go to work, you.”

“Yeah, not all of us get to lie in every day,” Greg retorted, rolling off the bed and reaching for a shirt.

“Sod off,” John said good-naturedly. “At least you don’t have to break up with your girlfriend today.”

Greg snorted and flipped him off. “You going to come and have a cuppa with me before I go?”

“Yeah,” John said, rolling out of bed and into his dressing gown. They talked easily as Greg downed some breakfast.

“Good luck today,” he said, dropping a kiss on John’s head as he left.

“Thanks, love,” John called absently, already thinking about his conversation with Laura. He winced as he realised what he’d called after Greg. Surely it would have gone unnoticed? Shaking it off, he reached for his phone to text Laura. To his surprise it rang as he picked it up. Laura.

“Hey,” he said, flicking the kettle on again. “I was just about to call you.”

“Really? Weird when that happens,” she replied. “Look, can we meet for a cuppa this morning? You start at midday, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” John replied.

“Great, how about half eleven at The Peacock,” Laura suggested.

John agreed and they rang off as he stared across the flat.

She was going to break up with him.

It was a very Sherlock kind of moment. A conclusion came to him with certainty, and it took a moment before he could figure out where it came from.

She never called if she could text.

If they were going to meet for a regular cuppa, twenty minutes wouldn’t be nearly enough. She must have something specific she wanted to talk about.

And something…something else. Her tone of voice maybe, or the way she didn’t want to chit chat at all. Very out of character.

John shrugged. Nothing he could do about it either way. He’d just show up at half eleven and see.

 

_Hope court went okay this morning. Xx JW_

_Conviction thank God._

_All Sally’s glory to claim, this one._

_How did it go with Laura?_

_She broke up with me. JW_

_What?_

_Called this morning, wanted to meet before work._

_She’s moving to Leeds, got a job at Leeds Cancer Centre. JW_

_Shit._

_No, not really. JW_

_Y_ _eah._

_Did she pick it?_

_Don’t know. She_ _wasn’t too upset, but neither was I. JW_

_Okay. Can’t talk now but tonight?_

_Yeah. JW_

_+++_

_Sherlock – can’t stop in tonight. Tomorrow? JW_

_Hoping to get a leg over?_

_Surely Lestrade doesn’t hold you to a schedule, John. SH_

_No, you git, something’s come up. JW_

_I bet it has. SH_

_Fuck off. See you tomorrow. JW_

_I might be at Barts’. Call first. SH_

_Right. JW_

 

John was exhausted when he arrived home. His shift had been busy, and every spare second had been spent being the sad-but-not-too-sad ex-boyfriend of Laura. Every member of staff wanted to gauge his reaction in person, so he’d endured the same conversation a dozen times, not to mention the two nurses and a doctor who’d offered him some ‘comfort’ if he was looking.

He just wanted to see Greg.

It had been oddly traumatic, being broken up with by your not-really-girlfriend-who-thinks-she-is-your-girlfriend. The sympathy through the day had required all his acting skills, because in reality it was great for him that Laura was leaving. Much less awkward when he and Greg… Assuming he and Greg were going to…

They needed to talk. There hadn’t really been a proper conversation about what they were going to do now. John trusted Sherlock to keep the secret, but he didn’t know if Greg did, and when it came down to it, Greg had to be his priority in this situation. As he grabbed a beer and shot Greg a quick text – _Take away?_ – John wondered how he actually felt about coming out to everyone.

_Oh God yes, take away. Anything you like. Home in an hour. I hope. Xx_

John stared at the text message. There was an excellent opportunity for some flirting in there – _I like you, can I eat you instead?_ – but Greg was clearly still working. He dropped to the sofa, drinking deeply from the bottle as he considered the two questions in his head.

Do I want to go public with our relationship?

How do I feel about Greg?

They were closely linked, of course. If he loved Greg, going public would be a no brainer. Even if he didn’t _love_ Greg, going public wouldn’t be terrible. It was hardly the earth shattering news it would have been twenty years ago. God knew his job would be secure – hell, half the male doctors would delightedly proposition him when they found out – but it was an irrevocable move. Even if he and Greg broke up it would be Out There. The idea made his stomach roil, but it was certainly a possibility – few relationships lasted forever. They hadn’t talked about the future, about what their plans were. They had only really just settled in, John felt, and then Sherlock came back and everything had changed again. There had been no declarations of love, undying or otherwise, and no casual conversations about anything further away than Christmas.

So where did he stand?

Absently he opened the app for their favourite Chinese restaurant, ordering their usual for delivery. If he and Greg were to have this conversation tonight, it would be better if he knew where he stood on the matter.

John imagined telling various people that he was dating a man. His mum, Harry, the others at work. Mike and his Army mates. The reactions would be varied, he knew. Probably at least two of his Army mates would fade away, uncomfortable with it but not wanting to make a scene. Harry would roll her eyes, his mother would lament the loss of future imaginary grandchildren.

He realised he didn’t care. It was a struggle to hold these images, because instead, his mind supplied images of Greg. The delight on his face when John randomly kissed him, bought the beer Greg liked and John didn’t, or ordered extra wontons (he’d done it tonight, actually). That was the face he cared about more than the reactions. If Greg wanted to go public, if he was ready and it would make him happy, John would be beside him. The words flowed from there without any conscious effort.

John loved him.

“Fuck,” he said in surprise. Well that answered the second question, then.

“’Fuck’, what?” Greg asked from the door. John jumped – he must have been out of it not to hear Greg come in.

Without stopping to think, he smiled at Greg and said simply, “I just realised I love you.”

Greg stopped and stared for a moment before hanging up his coat and walking over to the sofa. He didn’t pause, straddling John and cupping his face. “Finally,” he whispered. “I have loved you forever.” John surged upwards and they were kissing desperately, rough and messy, as though their admission had broken a dam.

Just as clothes started unfastening and hands ventured towards interesting places, there was a buzz at the door. Their meals had arrived.

They were just opening containers when John’s hands stilled, his brow creasing in confusion.

“Forever?” he asked Greg.

Greg’s hands stopped their work, and his eyes lifted to meet John’s. “Well, yeah.”

“As in, before we met back in London?” John asked. He had an odd feeling in his stomach, as though something he’d believed for a long time wasn’t quite right.

Greg laughed, a disbelieving little chuckle. “Yes, John.”  He looked as though he wanted to say more, but the look on John’s face stopped him.

“What?”

“I thought…” John drew a deep breath and pulled out a chair, sitting heavily as he reassessed his understanding of the more important period of his whole life.

“Me too, I think,” John said very quietly. He could hear the bewilderment and continued on, explaining himself. “I've certainly...been attracted to you. Cared for you. A lot. Since before Sherlock. Before the Fall, I mean.”

“But you and Sherlock…”

“Just friends, Greg.”

“Well, yeah, I mean you told me, but I could see, I mean you were…”

“I’m the first to admit Sherlock and I were a little outside the traditional box, but I never loved him.” John took a deep breath, his thoughts coming in awkward, disconnected statements. “I fancied you. Didn’t know it was love, at the time. I was devastated by Sherlock’s death, of course I was. My whole life was wrapped up with him. But I never wanted him like that. When you said you were leaving London, that was worse, in a way. Aberdeen is a hell of a way from London, or even Birmingham, too far for a casual visit. But…”

John choked out a laugh, burbled with a sob. “I thought you loved Sherlock,” he whispered, then dropped his head, tears spilling over. His shoulders shook with grief and relief and confusion and a whirl of other emotions he couldn’t identify. He felt Greg’s arms come around his shoulders and leaned into it, knowing he was soaking the shirt but not caring at all.

“I loved you,” Greg whispered when John’s sobbing had subsided. “It broke my heart to see you so lost, and I couldn’t help, not like I wanted to. I didn’t want to stay in London anyway, and I didn’t really have a job.” John felt him shrug. “When my sister suggested I go to the farm it seemed perfect. Thought I might get you out of my system up there.”

John smiled a little at that. “Rubbish idea,” he said. “Didn’t work for me at my sister’s either.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, “I knew that when I saw you in Tesco’s.”

John stiffened, then pulled back so he could frown at Greg.

“Hang on, we met again at the Red Lion,” John said.

“Yeah, after I messaged you,” Greg replied. “Which I did because I saw you in Tesco’s and figured, might as well give it a go, since I was still crazy for you and it had been months since Sherlock had...”

John couldn’t help chuckling. “Christ,” he sighed, cupping Greg’s face. “So you fancied me, and I fancied you, but we both thought the other fancied Sherlock, who was not really dead, which we didn’t know.”

“Well, yeah,” Greg said, “have you _seen_ him?”

“Of course I have.” John replied. “A whole lot more of him than I ever bargained for.” He rubbed his thumb over Greg’s cheek. “I’ve also seen you,” he whispered, “and I know which I prefer.”

Greg smiled. “Feeling’s mutual,” he murmured.

+++

They’d stood in the kitchen for ages, in the end, kissing gently and whispering admissions about the time before the Fall. When John’s stomach had finally protested the lack of dinner, they’d taken their reheated meals into the bedroom.

“So I’d been thinking about us,” John said through a mouthful of noodles. “When you got home, I mean.”

“Right,” Greg said. He’d done the face when he saw the extra wontons, and John had told him he loved him again, and they very nearly had had to reheat their dinner for a second time.

“What do you want to do?” John asked. They were sitting up in bed, John leaning against the headboard, Greg the wall. The king sized bed only fit properly if one side was pressed against the wall, which made it perfect for eating and talking.

Greg thought. “It’s a decision we need to make together,” he said carefully, looking right at John. “What you want is just as important as what I want.”

“True,” John conceded. There was silence as they ate, then John swallowed and spoke first.

“I’ll go first if you want.”

Greg nodded, so John continued, “I was thinking about this today. It was when I realised I love you,” he felt his face grow warm as Greg grinned and poked his thigh with a socked toe, “anyway,” John said pointedly, “that was when I realised what I want is for you to be happy. So if you want to wait, that’s fine. If you want to quietly announce it to people, fine.”

Greg considered this. “What if I wanted to keep it quiet indefinitely?” he seemed to be looking quite intently at John.

“I don’t know if that’s something I could do.” John said. It was a big thing, agreeing to basically keep their relationship secret. Especially now, when he’d only just realised how deeply he cared for Greg – and had been told how much and how long Greg had loved him. Keeping all that secret felt wrong. Like he was denying part of it. Like he was ashamed. He tried to put it into words, stumbling and stuttering, but ended up shrugging helplessly.

The honesty pulled at him, the possibility of things ending now real and frightening.

“And what if I wanted to get a huge banner made?” Greg said. “None of this quietly announcing for me, mate.”

Relief flooded John. “Seriously?” he asked.

“Well, probably not the banner,” Greg replied, grinning. “Quiet is fine. Better, really.” He swallowed the last of his noodles and sat up, leaning over John to drop it on the bedside table. “But if you want to, I want to.”

“I think I do, actually,” John replied. “What do you think they’ll say at work?”

“Who cares?” Greg replied. At John’s raised eyebrows, he said, “Okay, some people might have a problem. But I think it will be more surprise that you’re not with Sherlock, if I’m honest.” He settled beside John on the bed, head in his lap, comfortable. “I’ll tell Sally, and change my emergency contact, but otherwise I’m not going to make a big announcement.” He grinned up at John. “They’re detectives, we can make bets on how long it will take them to figure it out.”

“Even better,” John said. “I have an idea.”


	4. John and Greg and Half of NSY

That Friday, Greg joined the team as they made their way to the pub at the end of the day.

“Good to see you back here,” Sally said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied.

“Might meet someone!” Sally said brightly.

“What, sitting with a bunch of colleagues?” Greg said. “Not likely.” He scanned the group. Most faces were unfamiliar, which wasn’t a surprise; he hadn’t been back all that long and he’d been keeping his head down, avoiding social gatherings.

“Nah, there’s a bunch of groupies,” Sally told him. When he looked at her in disbelief, she explained, “Police groupies, it’s a thing, I swear. They come and hang around hoping to hook up.” She grinned and nudged him as they walked in the door. “Flash that shiny DI’s badge and you’re in, sir.”

Greg rolled his eyes as Sally went to get them each a pint. He made small talk, keeping one eye on the door. When Sherlock and John came in he exhaled as subtly as he could. John nodded to him, and he noted Sherlock’s hand on John’s lower back. So Sherlock was in. The game, as Sherlock would pompously say, was on.

“Sherlock and John seem pretty close,” Sally said into Greg’s ear. She’d sidled up to him but was watching the two men on the opposite side of their large table. They did look close, Greg thought, pushing the old, familiar jealousy away. It was an act, he thought to himself as Sherlock casually slung his arm over the back of John’s chair.

“Yeah,” he said shortly to Sally.

“You don’t know if anything’s going on, do you?” Sally asked point blank.

“Nope.” Greg said. “Why don’t you ask around? You know other DI’s have been asking for Sherlock, maybe someone else has spotted something.” That would set her off, he thought, and watched as she moved methodically through the bar. Soon all eyes were subtly on Sherlock and John, trying to figure out if they were together or not. Time for act two, Greg thought. He made his way to the bar for another pint, and Sherlock pulled out his phone and started to text furiously. John tried to engage him in conversation, but he waved John off. John, making a decent show of being annoyed, approached the bar and stood beside Greg.

“Another pint?” Greg asked lightly, and John nodded. They started a conversation, deliberately standing a little too close, leaning in a little too far, allowing affection to flow a little too freely. When Greg noticed the whispers begin – he’d deliberately ordered light beer so he’d notice – he asked John about Sherlock, their prearranged signal.

“Sherlock? We’re friends, Greg, how many times do I have to say it?!” John told him loudly. “Besides, not like I could get anywhere with his nose stuck in his phone.”

“I know somewhere you could get some,” Greg said, knowing the coppers around them were straining to hear every word.

As they’d arranged, John scoffed at the idea, clapped him on the shoulder before announcing he had to piss. Greg watched him go, deliberately admiring his arse. Sherlock, for his part, rolled his eyes at Greg and swept out, making as much fuss as possible with that ridiculous coat. Greg grinned. He must have loved that bit.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sally asked him. “Are you flirting with John? Aren’t John and Sherlock…” she whirled one hand in the air.

“Oh, who bloody knows?” Greg asked her.

“Well, they seemed pretty cosy before,” Sally retorted.

“Really,” Greg said in disbelief. “Has anyone seen anything else to support your theory?”

“Well, no,” Sally admitted.

“Right. How about this. I reckon I can get John to kiss you.” Greg said, folding his arms. “If he and Sherlock are together, no way he’ll kiss someone else. Rule following solider like that?”

Sally stared at him. “I don’t want him kissing me,” she said, looking slightly revolted. “Besides, if he’s dating a bloke, surely kissing a woman doesn’t count?”

It was Greg’s turn to stare at her now, her ignorance actually rendering him speechless for a moment. On the other hand, she’d handed him the perfect opening. No complex negotiation: here was the opportunity he’d been hoping for.

“Fine,” he said, slurring the word ever so slightly, supporting her supposition that he’d been drinking a little too much, “I’ll get him to kiss me.”

The slight pause around them made it very clear that a lot of people had heard what he’d said. Greg’s heart started to pound (no going back now, if nothing else the rumours about him would start to flow), but he looked Sally in the eye.

“You’re on,” she said finally.

“Ten quid says I can do it within the hour,” Greg told her. They shook, but he didn’t let go. “And if you’re gonna start a pool,” he added, “I want in. I’ll take anyone’s bet, a tenner each that I can do it.”

Sally’s smile was a little uncertain, but she nodded. “Right, then. An hour from when he gets back, in this pub. At least two witnesses.” Greg agreed – witnesses would be easy, they’d be watched by anyone who placed a bet, which would be most of the pub. He leaned against the bar, trying to act nonchalant as Sally began to circulate, making hasty notes and taking ten pound notes as she went.

When John returned, the bar was buzzing again. The noise level rose as he entered, and Greg waved at him when he frowned at the space where Sherlock had been sitting.

“He’s gone, mate,” Greg told him. He could see Sally still working her way around. Best to give her as much time as possible. The more bets the merrier, he thought.

“So we’re on?” John muttered without moving his lips.

“Can I buy you a pint?” Greg answered and John sighed as though he was reluctantly accepting. They stood for a further ten minutes, John playing the slightly put out friend, Greg turning on the charm, giving Sally time to collect as many bets as she could.

“Let’s find a booth or something,” Greg said finally. They each collected another pint – Greg’s head was beginning to swim a bit, even with the light beer – and they walked through the crowd. It was like Moses and the Red Sea, Greg thought amusedly, the way everyone hastened out of their way. The prime back corner booth was occupied, but at Greg’s disappointed expression the pair of Sergeants and their groupies hastily vacated. This focus of attention certainly had its benefits, he thought as they slid into the booth.

Being a corner, they could slide in opposite sides but still sit next to each other, which is exactly what happened. Greg pressed close to John, knees and lower legs entwining. They touched glasses and drank. Greg was trying hard not to stare out at what felt like their audience.

“What do you think?” John asked.

Greg was finding the proximity, tension and inebriation were catching up on him. He’d always been rubbish at undercover work. The tension always got to him.

“Act three, I’d say,” he muttered, grinning into his pint. He saw John do the same out of the corner of his eye, and each gradually ramped up the flirting until they were openly caressing each other’s hands, touching faces, and taking affectionate selfies. Greg leaned his head in, allowing it to bump John’s before leaning back; he almost heard the collective gasp at the not kiss. It was all he could do not to burst out laughing.

“Don’t forget,” he murmured, pretending to be examining the shape of John’s ear, “you have to be the one to kiss me.”

“Oh, I remember,” John murmured when it was his turn. “In fact, I simply can’t wait another minute.” He leaned in, tilting his head so he was in full view of the rest of the bar. His lips met Greg’s neck, kissing boldly upwards. He felt Greg’s hand in his hair, felt the reverberation as Greg’s groan was lost in the noise of the bar. He had no idea what was happening. The taste of Greg after so much public teasing was too much for any other sensory input to be meaningful. John groaned, sliding his hand around Greg’s jaw and neck, holding him steady as he pressed kisses along Greg’s stubbly jawline towards his mouth.

“I love you,” he murmured, lips brushing Greg’s before kissing him hard. He felt Greg tense, then melt as John’s tongue swept into his mouth; he wasn’t leaving anything to the imagination. John grabbed at Greg, not wanting him to sag too far. He could taste the light beer on Greg, feel the excitement as Greg’s breathing sped up. Christ, who knew they both had such a thing for public displays?

Tempted though he was to swing one leg over and straddle Greg, John thought they’d probably proven their point by now. Besides, if he was to sit on Greg’s lap, there was a good chance one of the dozens of coppers ogling them would have to arrest them both for offensive behaviour.

“Let’s go,” John gasped, pulling away just enough to talk.

Greg whined in protest but agreed, taking a moment to pant hard before pulling in a deep breath. “Okay.”

“You and me,” John said quietly, giving him an elated grin before turning to face the room. Nobody was trying to hide their interest in Greg and John now, and a raucous cheer went up as they slid awkwardly around the bench seat. John slid his fingers into Greg’s, then endured back slapping as they made their way across the bar to the exit. Sally stopped them, semi-grudgingly handing over a pile of banknotes.

“Ta,” Greg said, grinning sheepishly.

“No problem,” Sally said, giving him a grin of her own. She leaned in a whispered, “I picked it ages ago. Made a pile of my own betting beyond your limit of a tenner.”

When Greg let out a bark of surprise she winked at him then at John before sauntering off into the bar, presumably to collect her winnings. John tugged on his hand and he followed, bursting out into the cold night air together.

“Well,” Greg began. “I think that went well, don’t you?”

John let out a happy laugh. “I’d say so. Pretty sure you won’t have too much trouble there.” He was pleased for Greg, knowing the support of his colleagues would be a great relief. There would certainly be some who would be less tolerant sober, but this moment, this first reception had been positive, and that memory would keep Greg feeling good for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you've enjoyed this little snippet of Johnstrade. The next in the series is actually the backstory - how John and Greg dealt with the Fall (hint: NOT WELL), reconnected when they returned to London and eventually ended up together. I know that's kind of a backwards way of publishing, but I liked this story on its own before I know if the backstory would come together. I'm not sure of the timeline on it, so subscribe if you want to be notified of the next installment.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has read and commented! <3


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